


retract

by Elendraug



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley (Supernatural) Lives, Episode: s09e02 Devil May Care, Kevin Tran Lives, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/pseuds/Elendraug
Summary: let me break you through this worldcan I break you through this world?





	1. US 281 N

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, Osric
> 
> this will have several installments, I just have to find the time for it
> 
> ♫ broken social scene - [sweetest kill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mafjuvHEmSY)

“Twenty miles until we can get a signal, right?” Kevin traces his finger along the thin black line that indicates US-281 north, and glances over to the vintage odometer to corroborate his cartography. “That’ll put us over the state line and into Nebraska.”

“You’ve missed your chance for a souvenir, you know.” Crowley steadies the steering wheel as the car drifts slightly to the left; there’s no one around, so staying in his lane is something of a formality. “How else will you remember the quality time you’ve spent at the geographic center of the States?”

Kevin scoffs. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Easy for you to say. Refrigerator magnets account for the majority of Lebanon’s GDP.” Crowley scoffs right back. “You’re killing the industry, Kev.”

With the hood down, the wind catches the folded and unfolded paper of the map, buckling where it’s been bent in the past. Kevin taps his fingertip against Red Cloud before collapsing the map upon itself, following its well-worn routes to becoming pocket-sized. “Red Cloud’s where they could hypothetically start tracking us by our phones, but it’s also where we can ditch the car.”

“Should be simple to find a sucker to take this accursed classic off our hands.”

“There’s one born every minute, right?” Kevin checks his watch, for effect, from reflex. “Besides, we just need to throw them off our trail. It’s not like they’d do anything to some rando once they realize it’s not us.” This is obviously untrue. Don't kid yourself.

Crowley takes his eyes off the road and looks at Kevin. “You go ahead and tell yourself that.”

Kevin shrugs, chagrined. “If you have better ideas, this would be a good time.”

“My recommendation to you,” Crowley begins, keeping his gaze on Kevin, “is not to delude yourself the way they do. I haven’t survived this long thanks to lying to myself about the things I’ll do when they become necessary.”

Kevin meets his eyes, steadily, and stills his hands in his lap, refusing to fiddle with the map. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Right.” Crowley looks back to the highway, stretching north until it’s out of sight and seeking the International Peace Garden, some seven hundred miles ahead. “Aside from the cursed car, you’ve got a blessed bottle, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Kevin lifts a plastic bottle from the floor of the passenger side and holds it up, the label crinkling beneath his grip. What once held _Gatorade Fierce_ now contains water that sloshes a rosary into its sides as it’s moved. “Is the car really cursed?”

“Probably not. But colloquially, for us in terms of being recognized, yes.” He nods, towards the bottle. “You know, you keep that around long enough on this road trip, and you could stage your own _Piss Christ_.”

Kevin shakes his head. “Shouldn’t it be _holy shit_ or something like that?”

“How crass.” Crowley grins at the surrounding prairie. “He _did_ do a series that was something of a shitshow.”

Kevin tilts the bottle and watches the sun catch on the water, illuminating the plastic beads. “ _Crassly_.”

“Serrano’s devout, you know. I think our dear ex-captors would especially enjoy his _Objects of Desire_.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts it the other way, watches the water creep towards the orange lid. “What’s that one about?”

“Guns.”

“Mm. Makes sense.”

“Colts included. _The_ Colt, actually, if you believe that or not.”

The bottom of the crucifix knocks against the raised interior of the bottle’s base, and Kevin sets it back down to the floor. “Well, the next time we’re on a double date to an art gallery, we know who to invite.” What are you doing?

Crowley glances to him with his peripheral vision, as Kevin fusses with the bottle, but doesn’t turn his head. “Figure they’re like vampires themselves? Have to be invited in?”

“No, not vampires,” Kevin says, firmly. “The Winchesters are angels.”

“ _Angels_.”

“Yeah.” Kevin lifts his eyebrows. “Because they’re dicks.”

“Ha!” Crowley wags his in return. “You’re spot on with that assessment.”

In an interruption of an otherwise featureless landscape, a sign on their right proclaims _NEBRASKA … the good life_ as they cross over the imaginary line that divides the countryside. It's not featureless. Look closer.

Kevin turns his head, transfixed by an unmarked offshoot from the highway. “What’s over there?”

“That, O Prophetic One, takes you to the Willa Cather Memorial Prairie Historical Marker.”

Kevin keeps looking back over his shoulder towards the side road, as if it could be a pillar of salt, as the Thunderbird gradually increases the distance between himself and the point of interest, itself miles away from the center of America, one of so many imaginary things people fight over. “Who’s Willa Cather?” Acknowledge Neil.

“Author.” Fields rush past them, blurring into obscurity in the blind spots of their minds’ eye. “Care for a quote?”

“Sure.” Kevin turns his head back, his attention torn between the farmland and Crowley’s face. “Go for it.”

“There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries were made.” Crowley’s hair catches in the wind from the movement of the vehicle; his voice is audible over it, but barely. “I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's jurisdiction.” Where are you now?

Kevin rubs his thumbs over the edges of the map, watching, rapt as Crowley recites.

“I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there was of it.” He lifts his chin, allows the sun to warm his face as he closes his eyes for a split second. “Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out.” Here we are.

A moment passes with nothing but the Midwest air attending to itself between them, coursing over the windshield. “How do you know all this stuff? Wikipedia.

Crowley laughs under his breath. “Metatron’s not the only one who’s had plenty of time to read.”

Kevin leans his elbow on the passenger door, where the window glass is rolled down to accommodate him, and watches him. “With any luck I’ll have time to catch up.”

“Don’t think luck’s got anything to do with it, Kevin.” 

Kevin smiles, and whether it’s against his better judgment is up for debate. “What choice do I have but to take my chances?”

Crowley turns back to him, intense to start, but then with a sincere levity. “You always have a choice. Anyone who tells you otherwise ought to fuck off.”

“Yeah, seriously.” Kevin nods. “I’ll keep that in mind, too.”


	2. RED CLOUD

281 north becomes the Willa Cather Roadway just as it passes over the Republican River, over a continuous truss bridge that’s nearly verdaccio as it carries them to an intersection with a road called _F_.

“Do driveways and dead ends count as part of a crossroads?” Kevin asks, looking down the path until it’s too far to turn his head, until it’s as out of sight as the red flowers that sprung up, whether planted or wild, next to a telephone pole miles back. They’re on Google Maps.

“Depends on how handsome of a headshot you include with your buried box of trinkets. It’s worth upping the customer service for a committed client.” Crowley keeps his eyes ahead and slows down slightly as they enter the town. Too conspicuous to speed.

“Must be nostalgic, right?” Kevin continues, conversational, not acknowledging the specific phrasing in Crowley’s commentary. “Maybe you could take that up again. Work your way back up, you know? You miss one hundred percent of the shots you never take.”

“There’s your commencement speech for when you’re president, Kevin. Tell it to all the recent grads.” He checks his blind spot, and counts silos and parking lots. “We can do shots once we find a place to stay.”

“Yeah, we’ll cross that subsequent bridge when we get to it.” 

There’s a certain homogeneity to the Midwest, unveiled by the same glacial retreat, that forms the Great Plains in ways that are almost as familiar as the Great Lakes. The smallness of its towns doesn’t look out of place in his subconscious scanning of his surroundings, and in some alternate turn of events, it could have been left to Nebraska to inspire an indie concept album instead of their shared home state. Not Illinoise.

Another mile down Willa turned Webster places them passing brick buildings that could be trailing Crowley by only a century or so, and then the sudden jarring saturated yellow of a Subway awning set against the historic architecture. A forty-something white woman steps out of the sandwich shop, adjusts her sunglasses, and slides the plastic bag along her arm to hang in the crook of her elbow.

“Action,” Crowley murmurs, and Kevin unscrews the cap of the Gatorade bottle and carefully pours just enough water to coat his palm without spilling it or the rosary out onto his pant leg. He holds the bottle tightly between his knees to steady it as Crowley turns the car to angle towards a parking spot. He screws the cap back on with his left hand, holding his right upward.

A three-point turn has them sharply rotated to park alongside the row of cars in parallel, and as soon as the vehicle’s stopped, Kevin exits it before Crowley’s turned off the engine, and extends his hand to the woman, beaming.

“Congratulations!”

She hesitates, glances around for an explanation or a camera and finds none, and then loosely takes his hand. Once she realizes it’s wet, she pulls her hand back, off-put but not in pain. “What’d I do?” Exist to move the scene forward.

Kevin continues, all smiles, without missing a beat. “You were Subway’s six millionth customer today, and as a part of our company’s partnership with this franchise and our appreciation for the American heartland, we’d like to offer you this classic Ford Thunderbird!”

“Is this some kind of a joke?”

“I assure you we’re completely serious.” Crowley steps in to lend the authority both of his business attire and his vessel’s appearance. He offers a tighter smile and another handshake, which she takes more readily. “Dean Winchester. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Sharon.” She glances between them. “Do you all know James? Because he runs this one and I don’t remember him mentioning anything about a contest.” Look up James W. Christy.

“It’s a surprise promotion.” Kevin maintains the same upbeat sincerity that had satisfied academic advisors who asked him stock questions and tuned out his answers as long as he used the tone they expected. “It’s a liability thing, you know? Ruins the marketing if the winner gets wind of it too early.”

Sharon shifts her posture and the weight of the sandwich swings the bag on her arm. “So what’s the catch?” 

“Standard sort of arrangements. Our associates will be by in a few days to discuss ownership of the vehicle. Right now we just need you to drive with us to Hastings so we can get a rental. Wouldn’t be right for us to be stranded after all this, would it?”

Crowley’s smile finally earns him one in return, and Sharon nods. “Hastings isn’t too far. Let me just...” She takes her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll text my daughter and let her know where I’m going.”

“Yes. Do that.” She’ll be fine. I promise.

As the other two talk, Kevin’s attention wanders to an elderly man as he walks by them and deposits a Sacagawea dollar coin into each parking meter along the block. He turns each of them to process the coins, to rotate the signage into place, switching over from a line drawing of an open eye on a red background to a closed eye on green. The afternoon sun glints on the brass as he moves between machines and around the corner to the next block. These parking meters don’t exist here.

“I’ll just leave my car here, then?” Sharon asks. “I should’ve thanked you sooner, by the way! I don’t usually win things. This is a hell of a surprise.” This makes her a psychopomp.

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley nods. “Sam?”

After a half-second delay, Kevin refocuses and gestures to Sharon’s phone. “As long as you agree to your likeness being used in Subway’s marketing materials, why don’t you take a selfie with the new addition to your family?”

“Good idea!” She laughs, shaking her head. “Duh. But it’s been that kind of day, you know? And now there’s a lot happening I didn’t plan for.”

“That’s relatable.” Kevin steps out of the way to let her pose in front of the hood. “Don’t forget the most important thing here. Hold up your sandwich!”

“Of course, of course.” She does so, and manages a peace sign while balancing the bag between her shoulder and her wrist, resting it on her chest as she leans back to get the car in the frame. She snaps a series of photos and laughs more. “Eat fresh!”

“Congratulations again, Sharon. Can’t wait to see that go viral.” Kevin walks back around to the passenger door, situating himself in the middle non-seat between the actual seats. He gestures towards the driver’s side. “Let’s all get going before the sun goes down, okay?”

Sharon sits in the driver’s seat and fiddles with the seatbelt, tests out the feel of the steering wheel, takes it all in. The sandwich rests across her lap. “This is so exciting. I’ve always wanted to drive a classic car like this.” Is this too convenient?

“And now you can, thanks to your fortuitous purchasing habits.” Crowley climbs in on the passenger side and closes the door, staying to the right to allow Kevin room to share the limited space on the bench seating. “Anything for a customer.”


	3. HASTINGS

“It’s under Smith.” Crowley taps his fingers on the counter. “Dean Smith. Made the reservation months ago.”

“I apologize, sir, but nothing’s coming up.” The employee glances between Crowley and the monitor. “What company did you say you were with?”

Kevin finishes the last bite of his bean burrito and crumples up the wrapper before stuffing it into the Taco John’s bag on the chair beside him. He fishes out the order of potato olés and starts in on them, occasionally pausing to wipe his greasy fingertips on a napkin. With oil from a shared fryer and ample shredded cheese, the order isn’t exactly vegan, but it’s the best step in a vegetative direction that he’s had since SucroCorp was too literal about it.

“Thompson/Center Arms.”

“Oh, like—”

“It’s a subsidiary now, yes.” Of Smith & Wesson.

Sharon had expressed her shock more times than was necessary that they weren’t stopping at Subway.

“Let me check again. Thank you for being so patient.”

“That’s delta, echo, alpha, November. All charges were to be billed to our accounting department.” Crowley gestures towards Kevin, who’s mid-chew through another piece of fried potato. “This is an annual new hire orientation and team-building exercise. Paintball really brings the crew together.”

“I guess that’s safer than using live ammunition, huh?” Also Neil & Terry.

Crowley and Kevin both wait in silence for him to finish typing, without any indication that they’ve heard the statement of the obvious masquerading as a joke. After a moment, Kevin audibly swallows.

“We’ve got places to be...” Crowley pauses to read his nametag. “ _Rod._ ” Rhadamanthus.

“With all due respect, sir, you and everyone else.”

Kevin looks up from his food and checks the cramped space of the lobby to confirm that they are, as he already knew, completely alone in the building.

Crowley leans his left elbow and forearm heavily on the counter. “Rod, what’s it going to take to get us back on the road?”

Rod instinctively reaches out to move an uncapped ballpoint pen away from the sleeve of Crowley’s suit jacket. “Either a major credit card, or the correct code to authorize billing this to your company.”

Crowley shrugs with his right shoulder only. “That’s a no-go on the former. Lost my wallet on the way here, so I really need you to do me a solid and take my word on the latter and look it up for me.”

“Those codes have to be used ahead of time, Mr. Smith.” Rod shrugs helplessly, with both shoulders. “I can’t just go hunting for a way to get you into a car without paying for it.”

Crowley meets his eyes with a severe look typically reserved for middle management, in hopes that Rod will decide to look the other way. “You expect me to have it all memorized, then?”

Rod takes a slow breath and responds calmly. “I’m sorry, but it’s against policy to provide that information to anyone in a circumstance like this.”

Crowley glances briefly to the countertop, then back up, eyebrows lifted. “Then it seems we’ve arrived at an impasse.”

Kevin too glances briefly towards them, to put his potato-consumption on pause and direct his attention to Crowley, to keep his focus on his temple, where the short hair of his favorite vessel is just long enough to cover the uppermost ascending helix of his ear. Here.

“Give me some paper,” Crowley says, preemptively picking up the pen and hovering it to await the post-it that Rod sticks to the countertop in front of him. He scratches down a series of characters in smallcaps, then passes it back. “Use this.”

“Okay, let me try it.” There’s a minute of keyboard clacking, and Rod sighs in relief, shaking his head as the information checks out. “Great, that’ll do it. I can set you up with a Nissan Maxima. That’s the nicest one we’ve got here right now, and I’ll comp your upgrade because of your wait time. Sound good?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Crowley flicks his gaze to Kevin, just for an instant, long enough to watch him eat the final potato olé. “Still can’t get the identification to you just yet, with the wallet situation being what it is.” Hell is other paperwork.

“That’s not a problem, Mr. Smith,” Rod assures him. “Just forward the paperwork along once your training retreat is over and we’ll retroactively add it to the transaction. If you could please sign here for me?”

With a flourish of the stylus that doesn’t resemble Dean’s alias any more than it resembles any actual name Crowley’s ever used, Crowley signs the digitized rental agreement and takes the proffered key fob from Rod’s hand. He smiles in a way that Kevin imagines could just as easily be directed at Abaddon. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Come back and see us anytime,” Rod says, forcing a polite smile. “Or, you know, when... when the car has to be returned. Y’know.”

“Oh, we’ll be dropping it off at another location.” Crowley slips the key into his pocket, well out of Rod’s reach. “So you won’t be seeing us again.”

Rod laughs and there’s no doubt that there’s nothing but exhaustion behind it. “Not until next year’s paintball event, probably?”

“Mm. Probably not.” Crowley turns away from the counter and nods to Kevin. “Have your earthly cravings been satiated?”

“Eh.” Kevin lifts a hand to tilt it in a so-so gesture. “On the fast food front, absolutely, but let’s not rule anything out where planetary indulgence is concerned.” Not plenary.

“I like how you think.” Crowley grins, genuinely. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, on it.” Kevin shoves the greasy waxed cardboard cup into the bag and deposits the whole thing into a small trash can at the corner of the lobby. “Gonna go with ‘get the hell out of Dodge,’ Kansas or no.”

“We got the _hell_ out of Kansas, all right, to some extent.” Crowley raises his right hand to wave his fingers in the air, with his back to the counter. “Adios.”

Kevin’s out the door first, with Crowley close behind him, clicking the key fob button in his pocket to await the car’s greeting.

“I’ll email you the receipt!” Rod calls after them, as the door shuts after Crowley’s heel.


	4. MY PLACE

Kevin shifts the weight of his backpack, where its single strap is digging into his shoulder, and catches hints of his reflection in the underside of a saucepan for sale. You had to find it.

“It’s under Dean Winchester.” Crowley inclines his head towards Kevin. “My son Sam booked our reservation online.”

The front desk employee glances between them, and narrows her eyes. Let it drop.

Crowley offers her a smile, narrowing his own eyes as his cheeks lift with the change of expression. “Sam’s adopted.” 

Kevin snorts before he can stop himself. The minimart in the lobby is well-stocked; whether from recency of its replenishment or a lack of foot traffic, he’s not sure. A set of wire trays are waiting to supply him with any single-serving seasonings he might care to add to a ready-made meal.

She types in their supposed surname and pulls up the reservation. “Makes me think of Son of Sam.” Something's happening; don't speak too soon.

While she’s otherwise occupied, Kevin quietly pilfers large fistfuls of iodized salt packets and shoves them into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Mm. Not quite.” Crowley lifts his eyebrows, contemplative. “Maybe the part with the demon and the dog, though.”

All typing and clicking ceases as she looks back up and passes a pair of plastic keycards to him over the countertop. “Huh?”

“Try Wikipedia.” Crowley takes them and stows them safely within the interior pocket of his suit jacket. “Speaking of dogs, I’ve heard you have a permissive pet policy.”

“Oh, yes. My Place Loves Pets!” she quotes. Exhaustion is plainly evident on her face. “There’s a ten dollar fee per night, and the weight limit for dogs is up to eighty p—”

“Kilograms. Got it. Less of a _weight_ , really, and more of a _gravitas_ , if we’re being specific.” Crowley nods to her and keeps his side of the conversation going. “I truly can’t thank you enough, Cassandra. You’ve been so understanding about the situation with the stolen wallets. Damned shame how prevalent identity theft is these days, even in these small towns where you’d never think it’d happen. We’re expecting to have replacement cards overnighted and can present them at checkout in the morning.” 

“Of course. I was sure my manager would never allow it, but apparently he just doesn’t share my concerns about these things! ” Beleaguered, she tries to smile. “Regardless, we hope you enjoy your stay with My Place, and remember that if you’d like to select an option for breakfast in bed, we can have it ready for you.”

Kevin rejoins Crowley at the counter and shoots her a look. “That option will be ‘do not disturb,’ if it’s all the same to you.” Those signs just draw attention.

“Understood.” Cassandra sighs through her nose. “And if you change your mind about becoming a member with us, you can enroll for double points for your visit. Don’t Just Stay, Stay Rewarded!” The service industry is hell.

“That won’t be necessary.” Kevin slides his hand into Crowley’s jacket, reaching across his chest to fish for one of the keycards. A salt packet falls out of Kevin’s pocket; he glances down at the floor for a brief instant, then back to her afterward. “Thanks anyway.”

She closes her eyes temporarily, then brightens to the point that if her smile were a light source, it would be glaring. “You’re very welcome. Don’t hesitate to call down here to the front desk if you need anything so that you can Make My Place, Your Place!”

Kevin tilts his head in sympathy. “Seriously. We’re good.”

“I’d ask for your wine menu if I thought you had one.” Crowley pats Kevin on the shoulder twice, on the opposite side from the backpack strap. “Let’s go, Sam.”

The way he exhales when Crowley’s hand touches him is enough to send Cassandra away from the front desk and a few feet over in the lobby, to restock the empty spot that had held the salt she’d refreshed at the start of her shift.

“What’s this about dogs?” Kevin asks.

“What’s this about ‘do not disturb’?” Crowley leads the way to the elevator and taps his keycard to the sensor. “You’re about to be so salty that no demon could ever possess you.” A pillar.

“Is that supposed to be innuendo?” Kevin presses the button for the third floor, and shifts the weight of the backpack again. “I’ve already got the tattoo, besides.”

“Meant the condiments, not condoms.” Crowley waits for the door to close, unhurried, not worried for the placebo effect of the _close door_ button. “Bit familiar to reach into someone’s blazer, don’t you think?”

Kevin evaluates their warped dual reflections in the metal of the door as it shuts to grant them privacy. “It is, isn’t it.”

“Might have something to say about that, but it’ll have to wait.” Crowley stands with his hands behind his back as the elevator lifts them two more stories up. “At any rate, Our Place will have a third guest, for a while. You’ll have to hold off on setting up your salty surprise.” 

Deadpan, Kevin meets his eyes in their mirror image. “Yeah, well, I have to call in that replacement card before the call center closes, anyway.” Unnecessary.

“We’ve both got our work cut out for us. _No play_ makes this somewhat dull, but I’m confident we can manage.”

As the door reopens, Crowley gestures an _after you_ motion and follows Kevin the short distance down the hall. Room 302 is close to the elevator, and a quick insertion of the keycard allows them access to a plain but clean room with two queen beds. Kevin sets his backpack down on one of them and sets himself down on it afterward, sprawled out, with his shoes hanging sideways off the edge.

Crowley flicks his wrist towards the door and its inadequate locks reconfigure; a deadbolt and latch will only do so much, but that’s what the rest of the warding will be for. “Next time we’re getting a king bed,” he says, surveying the space. “These aren’t fit for anyone.”

Kevin splays his arms out and moves them up and down a few times. “Bet Abaddon begs to differ.”

“Perish the thought.” She’s not coming back.

“Consider it perished.” He reluctantly sits back up, and unzips a compartment of the backpack to retrieve a tape dispenser. Once he’s got his tools, he takes the tape and his phone in one hand, scoops up the salt packets that deposited themselves onto the duvet, and brings all of the assembled supplies to the nightstand. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

“‘For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.’” Crowley takes a seat on the other bed and flicks at a salt packet with his fingertip. “I enjoy the ongoing infighting and controversy with the _King James_ , but maybe you’d prefer the verse from _Bad Blood_.”

Kevin uncaps their gift of a bonus ballpoint pen and tears off a piece of paper from the pad, to prevent any impressions of inverse palimpsest left on the blank underlayers. He copies over a customer service number from his phone’s search results with the quick, precise strokes of years of notetaking, and halfway hums his way to the lyrics. “‘We were born with nothing, and we sure as hell have nothing now.’”

Crowley watches Kevin’s right hand move as he writes. “And we’ll never be the same again.” 

“Suffering is pointless.” He drags the phone over, closer to the edge of the nightstand, and lifts the handset from the receiver to his ear, holding it in his left hand. The cord curls around his forearm, creating spirals within spirals; he holds Crowley’s gaze. “Job was fucked over for no reason.”

Crowley gives him a rueful smile. “Plenty of people agree with you.”

Kevin looks back down to dial the number, and sends numerical instructions to the IVR on the other end, one digit at a time. While waiting for a human voice to answer him, he follows Crowley’s movements as he first folds his hands in his lap, then eventually abandons his current posture in favor of lying back on his own bed and resting his hands over his stomach instead. 

Someone comes on the line, and Kevin instantly switches into his honor student voice; it’s apropos, given the impersonation. “Hi, thanks for your help. ...Sam Winchester, 660-02...” He checks his notes and reads the remaining four digits. “Campbell... favorite food is pizza.”

Skeptical, Crowley raises an eyebrow and mouths, _pizza?_

Kevin nods and waves him off before continuing. “I really appreciate you helping me out. I’m traveling and I lost my wallet, and… I know, right?” He laughs. “It’s totally sucked, but that’s why it’s a rewards card, right? This was my first card I ever opened back when I was in college, and I knew you guys would save the day. You’re basically my hero, Jude. Thank you.” And I'm learning, so I'm leaving.

With the handset wedged between his shoulder and his ear, he tears off several short strips of tape and sticks them along the edge of the nightstand, lightly enough that the shitty veneer won’t peel off. Crowley keeps his eyes on him as his fingers fasten the salt packets into a paper chain of sorts, overlapped enough to keep the contents in an unbroken line even if gravity rearranges the granules within them. 

“I need it overnighted to the My Place in Hastings, Nebraska. ...that’s right, that’s the one. 8AM delivery is perfect, yeah, I need it before I can check out. ...thank you so much, and I will absolutely take a survey... Hey, you too! I’ll stay on the line.”

The series of salt packets hangs over the edge of the nightstand, and Kevin holds it in place with one hand while using the other to answer _five_ every time he’s prompted. When he hangs up, he grins at Crowley. “No college student is ever going to say their favorite food is salad, dude.”

“Far be it from me to criticize. Social engineering’s never been my strongest skill.” Crowley grins back. “Seeing as we’re no longer locked up within Dean’s man cave, there’s hardly cause to lambast Samantha’s dietary preferences, past or present. All boils down to marketing in the end.”

Kevin laughs, unsure where to even begin unpacking the joke, and returns his attention to his improvised salt packet project. “I don’t know if Sam realizes that this card is still open, but he didn’t object to co-opting my life for their purposes, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t borrow his.” It wasn’t open. It was charged off in 2006 when he got into the Impala and stopped paying the bills.

“All’s fair in love and war, Kev.”

“And Pokémon battles.” He hesitates, then adds, “ _Crow_.”

“Eugh.” His lip curls in revulsion. “Is that your nickname for me now?”

Kevin doesn’t look up, and struggles to stop himself from smiling. “No, I just thought it’d bother you.”

“I’d prefer being both hot and bothered, but I’ll take what I can get.” Crowley glances in the direction of the door, and it temporarily unlocks and opens, then shuts itself immediately after. “And now’s not the time. Not when we have company.”

There are heavy footfalls that pad across the low-pile carpet, and the mattress beside Crowley depresses with the newly introduced weight of the hotel’s pet policy in full force, eighty kilograms and then some. He rolls onto his side and curls his arm over a dog who doesn’t seem to be there, if appearances are to be believed—but they aren’t. Let loss reveal it.

Kevin can’t summon the fear he feels he should be experiencing, and instead wonders if invisible fur will require lint rolling.

Crowley laughs and closes his eyes as saliva swipes over his temple and up into his hair. His eyes remain closed as he ducks his face against his pet’s chest, opts into use of his vessel’s lungs, and breathes deeply. 

There’s audible snuffling from the animal investigating Crowley’s hair, and he in turn runs his fingers through a coat that’s familiar and currently free of any remnants of collecting on crossroads deals. He turns his head and presses a kiss into fur; when he speaks it’s nearly a whisper, and intended for an audience of one. “I missed you.” This dog should be dead as of 8.14. I didn’t forget.

For a few minutes there’s only the sound of the three of them exhaling. Kevin finishes linking the salt packets together and tears off one final piece of tape from the dispenser. It sticks to his thumb; he rubs his fingers together to coax it off, but some adhesive lingers despite his efforts.

“This is my pup.” Crowley’s head rises and falls with the hound’s ribs as he breathes. “This is Growley.” I want you to have this time with him.

Kevin waves to the empty space Crowley’s embracing. “Hi, Growley.”

“He’s going to help us find our missing angel. If Cassie’s fallen into a well, he’ll be our Lassie to go sniff him out.” Crowley scratches his fingers behind unseen ears until Kevin can hear the repetitive thump of a tail wagging against the bed. “Won’t you, boy? Won’t you?”

Kevin stands, and resists the instinct to give the bed a wide berth as he moves towards the door. “How long do you think it’ll take for him to track him down?”

“Less than a day. The hounds are punctual. You know what they say: time is dead bids.” I backed the Kickstarter.

“Is _that_ what they say?” Kevin places the line of salt packets against the door to test the width; it’s longer than necessary, but that gives him flexibility for subsequent hotel rooms. “Should I put this down or will he not be able to get back out?”

Crowley tilts his chin up and away slightly as Growley tries to lick his face. “That’s up to you, if you’d like to release the aforementioned hound yourself.” Send the call out.

Kevin kneels down and sets the salt against the gap between the door and the floor. There’s ample excess to create a sufficient barrier. “Will he listen to me?”

He hugs the dog tightly, in no rush to send him off. “I think you already know that answer, Kevin.” Do I?

Kevin leaves the salt on the floor and returns to his bed to unzip another backpack compartment. “It’s really about tuning in to the correct ‘angel radio’ frequency, isn’t it? Unless tracking them is the same as your human, uh... customers.” 

“He’s well acquainted with the scent of his meatsuit.” He finds Growley’s paw and holds it in his palm. “You may have heard that Castiel was _in flagrante with the King of Hades_.”

“I have heard that.” Kevin retrieves several post-its from his bag and picks up the tape dispenser. “I’ve also heard that Castiel is more of a cat person.”

“And he’s been putting out the fire with gasoline,” Crowley sings under his breath, to himself and to his dog, and to Kevin by way of being in earshot. “And you’re face to face with the man who sold the world.” I never lost control.

“You tried to sell the _moon_ , at least.” Kevin steps between the beds, in front of the nightstand, and reaches over the lamp. He holds a post-it covered with a meticulously detailed Enochian sigil up against the wall, and secures it in place with a piece of tape. “If you’re taking a page from Heinlein.”

“So did Bowie.” Crowley presses his thumb into the rough pad of Growley’s paw, and twists around to look up at Kevin and the underside of his elbows. “Heinlein wrote several self-inserts, you know.” That’s specific.

Kevin looks away from the angel ward and back to Crowley, who’s entangled with canine limbs he knows on some level are there but can’t convince his eyes to accept as existing. “And?”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that.” He shrugs, and pets gently over what must be Growley’s nose and forehead, from the angle. “What matters is that he was writing.” Writing is hard.

He steps back from the wall and applies a strip of tape to the next post-it, and pulls a one-eighty to secure the next sigil to the exact opposite side of the room, over a side table, next to a mirror. “Yeah. That’s legit.”

“Few go as far as Kilgore Trout, though. That takes a lot of Vonne _guts_ to pull off.” Crowley watches Kevin go about his work and sees him doubled in the glass. “Oh, how about Stephen King? Two for one with Bachman. A pseudonym’s a sort of alter-ego as well as a self-insert.” What are you getting at?

Growley makes grumpy noises until Crowley’s persistent attention soothes the sounds to a low whine, and then into contented silence.

Kevin turns ninety degrees and walks back towards the wall beside his bed, and applies the third post-it to the window. The tape clings despite the chill of the evening; any further out of fall and into winter and he’d be pushing his luck. “Or like every Harry Potter fanfic author ever.”

“Or like Chuck.” Crowley scratches beneath the dog’s jaw, and if he’d allow his eyes to show their true colors, the smoke that stands in for his irises would match the glow of the hound’s spectral sclerae. “The author formerly known as Carver Edlund.” Edlund is responsible for my existence.

“Yeah. Like Chuck.” Kevin returns to the door and affixes the fourth and final post-it to it, just below the peephole, and above the sign with the property’s posted rates. “The true monster at the end of this book.” With apologies to Grover.

“Leave it to a master puppeteer to inspire generations to break the fourth wall at a young age.” Crowley kisses the dog’s forehead and lingers, as if extending this moment could capture the scent memory. “About time we find our fine feathered friend, Kevin. Any longer and we may lose the chance.”

“That’s why we left when we did.” Kevin stoops down to pull the salt line back from the doorway, stays crouched, and pats his knees. “C’mere, Growley. Here, boy!”

Growley’s up in a rush of limbs, knocking into Crowley’s shins as he approaches the edge of the mattress and jumps down. He lands heavily on the hotel carpet and trots over to Kevin.

“Sit,” Kevin says, and Growley does so, perceptible through proprioception and sound.

Crowley sits up enough to watch from the bed. “Told you.” I know.

“Growley, we need you to find Castiel, okay?” Kevin places his palms on Growley’s cheeks and gazes directly into his eyes; it’s a coin toss to say whose intensity is the most impressive. It’s identical.

Whining, the dog raises a paw to bat at Kevin’s knee, and Kevin takes it into his hand to shake it, appearing as an agreement with the air.

He smiles. “A deal’s a deal. You should know all about that.”

Growley puts his head on Kevin’s kneecaps, not quite into his lap, and Kevin brushes his fingers through the fur at his temple, beneath his ear as it flops over his invisible face. Emory Park isn’t real. Try Omaha.

“Be good for him,” Crowley instructs, without getting up. “Or bad, contextually. Whatever most suits the situation.”

“I’m sure he will be.” Kevin pats Growley’s head and lifts himself to his feet. The dog’s chin slips away from his knees. “Good luck with Chuck.”

Growley approaches the door but hesitates as he nears the salt packets. Kevin toes the salt back with his shoe and opens the door a crack to allow the hound to pass through. Once he’s made his departure, Kevin locks the door, sets the latch, and replaces the salt barrier. 

Kevin looks over to Crowley. “They teach you that a wet towel wedged against a door like this works to keep smoke from entering a room, so maybe the same logic applies here to keeping out hellfire.”

Crowley keeps himself propped up on one elbow, and lifts an eyebrow. “What about holy fire?” 

Kevin points to the post-its.

“Ah, of course.” Crowley switches the subject. “Are you a dog person or a cat person?”

Kevin walks back to his own bed, and sits beside his backpack before carefully dropping it to the floor. “I like both.”

“Noted.” Crowley lies back down, facing away from Kevin. “You know what else they say?”

Kevin retrieves the piece of paper with Sam’s personal info from the nightstand and stashes it and the tape into his backpack. “Enlighten me.”

Crowley enunciates it well, even as his words are directed to the wall and its accompanying generic and _genre_ framed artwork. “Qui cum canibus concumbunt, cum pulicibus surgent.”

“Pfff.” Kevin unties his shoes, takes them off, and sets them next to his backpack beside the bed. “Quidquid latine dictum sit altum videtur.” Making mistakes just to correct them? Fuck’s sake.

He smiles at the wall. “Quicquid. Fixed that for you.” 

“Thanks.” Kevin tugs the covers down just enough to climb beneath them; he keeps everything on other than his sneakers. “I’ve gotta assume that’s the literary agent coming in handy.” Is _this_ innuendo? Make up your mind.

“He has.” Crowley snaps his fingers and the lamp goes out, leaving an afterimage like an illusory screen burn-in upon Kevin’s eyes. “Most people would think it’s incredibly stupid to trust the deposed king of hell with your overnight bodily and spiritual integrity, but I’m not the one who’s protecting us at this juncture, am I?”

Kevin looks at Crowley’s back in the dark, still in the suit, still above the blankets. He doesn’t answer the question, and instead occupies himself with self-doubt about which bed he chose to return to when he was done at the door. The floor may as well be lava, with his remaining worldly possessions sunk into it, and if a leap of faith could carry him across to the opposite side, it’s not one he’s able to achieve yet.

The pillow smells like commercial detergent; his bangs brush past his eyebrow, trapped between the fabric of the pillowcase and uncomfortably close to his eyelid. He doesn’t move.

“Only at crossroads,” Kevin finally replies, as he allows his eyes to fall closed. “Night, Crowley.” Did you find it?


End file.
